


godfuckingdamnit.txt

by negativecosine



Series: the AU where they're linguists [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Humanstuck, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/negativecosine/pseuds/negativecosine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trolls are linguists and Sollux and Karkat have angry sex about a syntax paper. There is no actual useful discussion of linguistics here at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	godfuckingdamnit.txt

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent! Also the AU is extended into a sort of loosely associated series now, if you're into that kind of thing.

It is three forty three a.m. when the Syntax Three Fruity Rumpus Thursday Night Clusterfuck adjourns. Terezi is the last one to leave-- well, you eject her bodily from the house, and she shouts some things, and is drunk, and knowing King Street this will strike no one as peculiar for a Thursday Night. She may or may not make it back to Seabright tonight. You seriously do not care one fuck; she once stranded you in San Francisco after getting you so stoned you were blind. (She says that is normal for a gravity bong and a lightweight. She can fucking walk home. Whatever.) 

It is three forty seven a.m. when you finally get Karkat against a wall. He's snarling and whining at the same time, and it's a weird fucking sound. He hasn't slept in three days-- between the syntax, the thesis, the job, and the extra time he puts in grading papers, he's a wreck, all snapping and sour coffee-breath and teeth and whiskey, and pinning him to a wall feels almost as good as figuring out that Turkish gapping problem. He's in top form tonight, the tiniest, most ruthless, brutal leader. He's whipped Terezi and Vriska and Kanaya through a multicolored orgy of googledoc editing; he's dragged you and Tavros through the trees, the cascading horrors of movement and symmetry and type-setting fucking Turkish, that is not your favorite thing to do on a shitty Windows-running piece of netbook that you dug out of your bag at the last second. And he's done it all at the top of his lungs, and his voice is finally just fucking gone, reduced entirely to inhuman grunts and deep glottal fricatives, non-phonemic. You bite him, hard, yes. On the specifie-no, on the neck. 

"You're thinking about it, aren't you," he growls into your hair, and claws at you, hard and mean. "Don't lie. Is it the Japanese thing now, we need more data, did you ask-" 

"Shut the fuck up," you tell him, and bite him on the mouth, instead. 

He's tight and shaking under you. And you're tight and shaking against him. The frantic mania, the espresso shots and vodka shots, the symmetry, the Glorious Fucking Revelation, the paper that's due in six hours, the ten other assholes he has to wrangle into writing it with you-- it's like the opposite of being stoned, and you mean that in the best possible way. Your nails make a horrible noise on the drywall next to his shouler, and you get your hip in against his to push, hard, slam him back so he arches his spine just as a defense technique, and, yeah, that is friction, that is a thing, yes. 

Apparently not enough of the thing, though, because he is still trying to talk, muffled against your mouth, and it makes you think about labial consonants, sonorants, phonology bullshit. Fuck, that's right, you have two papers due tomorrow, not one. What the fuck is he trying to say? You pull away, and go for his ear instead. 

"Ask Ito, or what was that girl that Vriska keeps going to's parties-" 

You bite him really hard, and he squeaks. You hate when he island-violates, it is the harshest star, he picked it up off Scratch and can't stop. But he doesn't shut up. "The one who hosts the Japanese club drinking night, who the fuck is that, we can call her in two hours, get some data, do the appendix, fucking _ow_ , Captor, stop." 

You stop chewing, but more because it's proving not very effective in the Shut Vantas Up campaign. You try a hand down his pants, instead. This inspires another growl-plus-squeak noise, and it's ugly and perfect, and you hook your thumb down to try and pry his stupid fucking hipster goodwill skinny jeans away from his stupid pelvis, and all you succeed in is getting stuck, and aggravating your carpal tunnel, which hurts like a son of a bitch, but you can't get your hand out. The only escape is further in. 

The noise he's making becomes less growl and more whine when you do it, and he forgets that whole "legs hold you up off the ground" and just straight-up fucking pins his knees on your hips and oh god he's heavy for such a tiny fucker, you're going to fall, but the angle's better and his boxers are soaked and he's cursing you through five kinds of hell in four languages he doesn't even know, and trying to hold you up just by clawing your back and pushing his hips up off the wall and you're seriously not strong enough for this, and he hisses at you the whole way down when you slide down, slow and non-catastrophic as possible, to the scratchy hardwood floor. His hips refuse to hit the ground, still push straight off, but now he can use his shoulders back against the wall as leverage and he's pulling you down onto him with those sharp fucking knees jabbing into your ribs, it's all pretty much the opposite of physics, and is he still fucking talking, does he ever stop fucking talking, seriously. You stick three fingers in his mouth to see if that helps, and he _bites_ and oh fuck it's _good_. He's bright red and breathing hard through his nose and glaring at you and trying to _eat_ your fingers off your hand, oh god, you are so tired and fucked up that you're an inch away from coming from this, and the last shred of reality holding you back is, fucking-

syntax. Because once he _said_ that thing about Japanese you can't stop _thinking_ about it and he is such an _asshole_ and you took a bit of Japanese in high school so you've got both hands knuckle-deep in this nasty horrible syntax machine and you're wracking your mind for data, for clauses and their weird little particles that you didn't understand at the time because you were still convinced you were really a programmer, and damn it, damn it, are you-

Yes, apparently you are talking aloud, because he makes a sound like a sob and he's taut like a bow and he's going to break all your fucking fingers off but you can still see him _listening_ and you're babbling about, what, tag questions, or are you just using that as a part of natural speech, is there any such thing, who is to say that you can't say "You're a disgusting fucking slut, aren't you?" and not mean it in earnest and also as a data test, who's to fucking say. 

When he comes you know it, because he sounds like you've murdered him. It's this horrible, horrified squeal, like he didn't expect you to actually accomplish anything with this, like he's surprised that you've managed to distract him long enough. You're equally surprised when you come in your fucking pants with his nails sunk right into your back clear through two shirts, but you've got the damn sense to be quiet about it. 

You black out for a second. It's not the drugs or sleep deprivation, it's just a thing that happens. Usually Karkat mocks you mercilessly for it, but he seems to be sort of in a similar situation, because when you come back, your fingers are sliding out of his slack mouth, and he's staring at you and there's a little bit of drool on his chin to match the angry little tears at the corners of his eyes. He pants brainlessly at you as you extract yourself and try to put his limp body into a position that gravity is a little more comfortable with. 

"Kk?" you say after another minute. His eyes half-focus, and he looks a little surprised that you're still there. His pants are open but they managed not to budge a fucking inch in the entire ordeal, so he just looks trashed for no reason, and it's sort of disgustingly endearing now that he's quiet. "Come on, assface, upstairs." 

He grunts, untangles from your shoulders, then retangles into almost exactly the same position, but you guess slightly looser. It's enough that you can hitch him up to standing, resting heavy on the wall. You groan as your pants shift- that's basically the worst feeling ever an as soon as you get this sorry fucker into bed you are taking a shower and then, 

uh, 

writing the phonology paper, you guess. 

Whatever. It's Thursday, you all know how this goes by now.

**Author's Note:**

> (I wrote out the lisp originally but "dithguthting fucking thlut" cracked me up too much, sorry.)


End file.
